After the divorce, she lived in a storage unit. One night, she heard a knock from the other side of the wall, and what followed left her frozen…

With trembling fingers, she pulled out the note. Someone trying to start over. Simple as that, no name, no history, just that phrase which somehow perfectly described what she herself was trying to do.

In the following days, the notes became more frequent. When the tears came, instead of just hitting the wall, Livia wrote, today the burden is unbearable. And the response came back, breathe, one minute at a time, you made it this far.

When he wrote, the past won’t let me sleep, she would reply, do as I do, count imaginary stars on the ceiling until your eyes grow heavy. They never talked about details. They never asked for names, ages, professions.

It was as if they both knew that the magic of that connection was precisely in the anonymity, in the purity of two souls communicating without the burdens and judgments that details bring. One night, after three months in that ritual, Livia felt an overwhelming need to talk about Alice. It was the girl’s birthday.

She would have turned seven. The whole day was an ordeal. Every hour, every minute passed, laden with memories of what they would be doing if she were still there.

The chocolate cake with strawberry frosting that Alice loved so much. The purple and blue balloons she insisted on having. The new dress that would have looked perfect on her.

With hands shaking more than usual, Livia picked up a yellowed sheet of paper and wrote, Her name was Alice. She was six years old. Her eyes were of the sky.

Her laughter, like a cartoon. She loved dancing with her father. Sleeping cuddled up with me.

Sometimes, I still hear her little footsteps running down the hallway. I smell her hair. But I can no longer touch her…